


Of Songs and Shadows

by Frosty_7



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29598477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frosty_7/pseuds/Frosty_7
Summary: SPOILERS FOR ACOSF**************************Gwyn chooses to attend the mating ceremony after all. Startling new developments come to light.
Relationships: Azriel/Gwyneth Berdara, Emerie/Morrigan (ACoTaR), Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Comments: 69
Kudos: 251





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I recently finished ACOSF, and have not been able to get Gwyn and Az out of my head! This is my take on Gwyn going to Nessian's mating ceremony. It'll probably only be a couple chapters long, but I may decide to expand upon it in the future.

_You can do this._ Gwyn took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. She glanced at herself in the mirror, admiring the teal dress Nesta had sent her— _it would go so well with your eyes_ —she had said slyly, dropping off the package in her hands after training earlier in the day.

The teal of the dress did bring out the blue in her eyes, and it highlighted the copper notes in her hair. It was made of the softest silk, and when Gwyn had first seen it, she’d gasped, knowing that it had likely cost more than all of the clothes she’d ever owned combined.

But what she’d liked best was that despite its beauty, it was simple, elegant. It was not too tight, and it was long-sleeved, with the neckline far higher than the dresses Nesta usually liked to wear—so Gwyn knew she had had the dress made with her in mind. The thought brought a smile to her lips, and solidified her resolve to go. Besides, Emerie would be there too, and the two of them would be able to laugh at the way Nesta and Cassian hopelessly mooned after each other.

She smiled at her reflection in the mirror, and twirled, remembering old childhood dreams of going to balls with handsome lords and dancing in beautiful gowns. Catrin, who’d been light on her feet, would’ve dazzled crowds with her dancing, while she would’ve sung the melody that her sister danced to. For a moment, she allowed herself to savor the sweetness of the past, unmarred by Hybern.

Hesitating, she glanced towards the necklace on her nightstand. Golden and lovely, it was, aside from her circlet and her friendship bracelet, the only piece of jewlery that she owned. Clotho had given it to her, saying it had come from a friend, but had refused to tell her which one.

Gwyn knew which one she’d like it to be. She smiled slightly, thinking of Azriel’s handsome face, his kind eyes, and his scarred hands, the only part of him that belied the trauma he must have endured. One day, she hoped he’d share it with her, but right now...well, it was enough for now.

With shaking hands, she slipped on the necklace, fastening the clasp at the nape of her neck, before giving herself a once-over, pleased with what she saw. She lingered over the cloak draped over her bed before choosing to forego it—it was supposed to be a warm night, after all, and she wanted Nesta to see how much she appreciated her gift and all of its little details.

She made for the entrance of the library, brushing past a few curious priestesses—there was no doubt in her mind that they would press her for details once she returned. To her surprise, a giggling Ananke caught her arm.

“He’s waiting for you,” she whispered, squeezing Gwyn slightly. “And you look lovely. You must tell us all about it after you come back.”

There was only one male that could make Ananke giggle like that. A smile rose to her lips, unbidden. “Thank you,” she breathed back, straightening her shoulders and gliding the rest of the way to the entrance.

Sure enough, Azriel waited for her at the doors, sillouetted by the fading afternoon light. Although his back was to her, his shadows peered curiously at her from around his wings, shrinking back in slight surprise as she waved to them cheerfully.

He turned, then, and his eyes widened ever so slightly as he took in her attire. “You look lovely,” he said, meeting her eyes.

Gwyn beamed. “You don’t look too bad yourself, shadowsinger.” He offered her his arm, and she took it, relaxing as his shadows curled around her. They walked in silence until she caught him giving her a strange look. “What is it?”

“Normally,” he said wryly. “People try and stay away from the shadows.”

Gwyn shrugged. “I don’t mind the dark. Besides, they’re awfully friendly, aren’t they?” One of the shadows twined around the hand she’d placed on Azriel’s arm as if in agreement. He looked bemused.

“I suppose they can be,” he said finally. He stopped them at the entrance to the courtyard. “Ready?” He asked.

Gwyn nodded her agreement, and gently, he placed his other hand on her forearm, before winnowing them away.

They landed next to a river, facing a small, but elaborately decorated temple. From inside, Gwyn could hear the sounds of raucous conversation, and she stiffened, swallowing slightly. This would be her first planned outing alongside a group in years. As if noting the stiffness in her body, Azriel gently squeezed her forearm, causing her to jump.

She’d forgotten that they were standing so close. He dropped her arm immediately, looking regretful, but before he could voice an apology, she tightened her grip on his arm. “No I—I’m just a little nervous, that’s all.” She didn’t want to admit weakness, but she also wanted that terrible look in his eyes to disappear—regret and loathing. _You aren’t like them_ , she wanted to say. _I’m not afraid of you_.

His eyes softened. “If you want to leave, neither Nesta nor Cassian would begrudge you.”

Gwyn bristled. “I can handle one party. I’m not weak,” she said irritably, before remembering who she was talking to. “Er...sorry.” She said quickly. “I didn’t mean to—” She chanced a glance at him, and was surprised to find him smiling broadly at her, his shadows dancing around his wings.

“I would expect nothing less from a Valkyrie. Titles aside, you are one of the strongest people I know.” His voice was gentle, admiring, and it brought a flush of color to her cheeks. Before she could stammer out a thank you, Mor appeared with Emerie on her arm.

“What’re the two of you doing, loitering outside like this?” Mor demanded, smiling warmly at the pair of them. Stunning as always, she was dressed in a tight-fitting gown of deep red with a plunging vee. It made Gwyn feel as if she, in comparison, with her loose, long sleeved, and high-necked dress was a...well, a priestess in comparison. The thought brought a grin to her lips, and she turned her gaze to Emerie, who, to her surprise, was gazing at Mor with unbridled awe...and something else.

Gwyn’s smile grew wider. “Admiring the scenery,” she said cheerfully, winking unsubtly at Emerie, who flushed and glared playfully at Gwyn.

Mor looked bemused. “Nesta insisted on both of you joining her at the house to help her get ready. I’m supposed to bring both of you up.”

Gwyn sucked in an excited breath, and dropped Azriel’s arm. “Of course!” She said immediately, eager to see her friend before the ceremony.

Mor laughed. “Someone’s awfully eager to get away from you, Az,” she said, as Gwyn grabbed her arm.

Gwyn glanced over her shoulder at Azriel, who watched Mor as something that looked suspiciously like longing flashed over his face. His shadows clung to him, as if shielding him. “Indeed,” was all he said, before he winnowed away.

Mom’s smile froze on her face, and Gwyn got the feeling he hadn’t been talking about her at all. Behind Mor, she exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Emerie. Clearly, something had happened between the two of them.

Mor shook herself out of whatever trance she’d fallen into and gave the two of them a tight smile. “Hold on.” She winked at them, before winnowing them away, but not before Gwyn caught Emerie’s blush.

They reappeared in a richly decorated hallway, lined with portraits. A great window was in front of them, and when Gwyn stepped forward, she saw the river and the temple below them. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed, unsure if she was talking about the house, the temple, or the view before them.

“It is,” Mor said gently. After a moment, Gwyn turned to face her and Emerie, who looked mildly uncomfortable with the richness of the environment around her.

“Where’s Nesta?” Emerie asked, moving closer to Gwyn. She understood. It made her a little uncomfortable too, to be surrounded by such luxury. It didn’t feel as if she belonged.

“Right down the hall. She’s the first door on your right.”

“You aren’t joining us?” Emerie asked curiously.

Mor grimaced. “I’m mainly here for Cassian. I’m not entirely sure that Nesta would...appreciate my help.” She dipped her head at them before disappearing from the room.

Gwyn and Emerie exchanged glances. They had known, of course, that Nesta’s relationships with the other members of the High Lord’s inner circle were strained, but the way that even Mor seemed to walk on eggshells around her surprised Gwyn, and made her a little angry on her friend’s behalf.

It seemed to her that no one here had ever really bothered to know Nesta. Then again, it was hardly her place to judge whatever was between them. She loved Nesta and admired Mor, who, a few weeks after she’d settled into the library, had shared her story with her. Both of them were so strong—they reminded her of Catrin—and she hoped that one day, they’d grow to be friends.

“You look awfully fancy in that dress of yours,” Emerie said, nudging Gwyn lightly.

Gwyn laughed, and looped her arm through Emerie’s. “Why haven’t you worn yours? I know Nesta sent you one too.”

Emerie grimaced. “I have it here. I don’t…it doesn’t feel like I should be wearing something like this.” She drew Gwyn’s attention to the bag on her arm.

Gwyn understood. How could she not, when she had spent hours in front of the mirror herself, agonizing over whether or not to wear the dress? She’d thought it too lovely to be worn by someone as wretched as herself. But the fact that it had been Nesta’s gift to her eventually won out over her punishing thoughts. “You know, I used to help Catrin get ready all the time. If you like, I could...that is, I’d love to do the same with you.” She squeezed Emerie’s arm gently.

Emerie offered her a hesitant smile. “Maybe,” she said softly, before tugging Gwyn down the hallway.

She knocked on the first door to the right. It opened quickly, revealing a High Fae female with blue-gray eyes, golden brown hair, and a face so like Nesta’s that she had to be one of her sisters. Upon seeing Gwyn and Emerie, the female’s smile widened, and she beckoned them inside. “I’ve been waiting forever to meet you both,” she gushed, clasping one of Gwyn and Emerie’s hands in her own. “I’m Feyre.”

The High Lady of the Night Court. Gwyn felt her face redden, and she dropped into a curtsy. “M-My lady,” she breathed, feeling her face redden in slight embarrassment. She had not expected the High Lady to be so...nice.

Feyre laughed, drawing Gwyn up. “There’s no need for that.” She slipped an arm around Gwyn’s, and repeated the motion with Emerie. “Nesta’s been anticipating your arrival. She’ll be over the moon to see that you’ve come.”

Gwyn managed a hesitant smile, steadfastly ignoring the surge of nervousness that the High Lady’s words had brought her. She could do this for Nesta. She heard raised voices from behind another door; one had Nesta’s signature sharpness, and the other, though raised, was somehow softer, gentler.

Feyre winced. “That’ll be Nesta, and my other sister Elain. They’ve been arguing over jewlery.” The shrill cry of a child split the air, and if possible, Feyre’s wince deepened. “And that’ll be my son.” She pushed open the door, untangling her arms from Gwyn and Emerie’s and making a beeline for a crib on the other side of the room. After a moment, the cries subsided.

Gwyn and Emerie halted in the doorway, taking in the scene before them in mild shock. Jewels and fabric were scattered around the room, in a manner not unsimilar of the destruction of the Rite.

In the center of the room, Nesta, wearing a dress of white and red, faced off against another Fae with gentle brown eyes. At their entrance, both had turned to face the door in surprise. Nesta was the first to break the silence, a broad smile on her face. “You came!” She cried, throwing her arms around Emerie first, and then Gwyn. “Thank you,” she breathed into Gwyn’s ear as she pulled back, eyes shining.

Gwyn mustered a warm smile. “Anything for my sister.”

Nesta beamed. “Speaking of sisters, it seems you’ve already met Feyre, but this is my other sister, Elain.” She pointed to the sweet-faced Fae, who was watching them curiously.

Gwyn offered her a smile. “It’s nice to meet you.” Elain smiled back, before her eyes caught on her necklace, and her face turned pale and cold.

“I just remembered I forgot something in my rooms,” she said, moving past the three of them to the door. “It was lovely to meet you both.” And then she was gone.

“Did I say something wrong?” Gwyn asked worriedly. Emerie squeezed her hand.

“No,” Nesta said firmly. “Elain’s just been a bit off, these past few days. I think it might have something to do with the presence of...that male.” Her face darkened.

Feyre, carrying her child on her hip, stepped forward, rolling her eyes. “His name is Lucien, Nesta, and really, he’s been nothing but—”

“I know,” Nesta cut in, her jaw tightening. She took a deep breath, and turned away from them, picking up a necklace dripping with diamonds. “What do you think of this one? Too much?”

The tension in the room was near stifling, until Feyre sighed and shifted the baby in her arms. “It’s lovely, Nesta.”

Nesta turned to Gwyn and Emerie. “What do you think?”

Emerie rolled her eyes. “Stop fishing for compliments. You know you could pull off anything.”

“Besides,” Gwyn added mischievously. “You could be wearing rags and it wouldn’t matter to Cassian—he’d still be staring after you with that dopey expression on his face.”

Emerie coughed and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like training.

Nesta frowned at the two of them, while Feyre looked surprised. “I’m really looking forward to getting to know you both.” She said, a slow smile creeping onto her face. “I think we’ll have a lot of fun together.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: FLASHBACKS OF SEXUAL ASSAULT

Gwyn hummed to herself as she braided Emerie’s hair, fingers easily slipping back into the movements that had once come so naturally. Caught up in memories as she was, she hardly realized when she opened her mouth and began to sing the tune in earnest. This was what she’d always done with Catrin—she’d sing to her twin as they did their tasks around the temple, and Catrin, jokingly, would tell her that her voice was sweet enough to captivate even the prickliest of the Fae. 

It was only when she realized that Nesta and Feyre had fallen silent that she stopped, fingers stilling. “That was beautiful, Gwyn.” Emerie said softly. 

Still, Gwyn felt tense, and her voice died in her throat. It was one thing to sing before the other priestesses, in the temple, and it was another entirely to do it here. It was so easy to slip back into happiness when she was with her friends, her sisters-in-arms. To forget what had happened to her, what she had allowed to happen to her sister... _ snap out of it Gwyn!  _ With a Herculean effort, she pulled her mind away from those thoughts, and responded. “Thank you. I used to sing it to Catrin.”

She would be brave. There was no sense in hiding away like she had before. She was a Valkyrie now, had survived and won the Blood Rite. She could manage talking about her past.

Feyre broke the odd stillness of the room by holding up a now sleeping Nyx. “He certainly liked it. I’ve never been able to get him to sleep this fast. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to babysit?” The words were said in jest, and they laughed.

Over the clamp of fear in her heart, Gwyn managed a nod, smiling, trying to ignore the memories of the last time she’d been in charge of children. “Perhaps.” She wouldn’t be sleeping tonight.

“I think I’m finally ready,” Nesta announced, twisting around to examine herself in the mirror. Clad in diamonds, rubies, and a red and white dress that clung to her every curve, Nesta looked every inch a queen. Yet, the loveliest part of her was not her jewels or dress, but her bright, wonderful smile. 

Gwyn felt her lips curve into a matching smile upon seeing the happiness on her friend’s face. “You were ready nearly an hour ago,” an amused voice said from the door. There was power woven into its notes, power and wisdom—Gwyn turned to see a small, silver-eyed female with short black hair leaning against the door. 

“Amren,” Feyre sighed, a note of impatience in her voice. “Gwyn, Emerie, this is Amren, Rhys’ Second. Amren, the one standing is Gwyn and Emerie is sitting in the chair.” His second...the High Lord radiated power, and so did Mor, his third. For Amren to be his second...a chill went down Gwyn’s spine. 

She smirked at Gwyn and Emerie. “Pleasure,” she said wryly, dipping her head slightly towards them. “So you’re the two younglings that won that thrice-damned Rite?”

Gwyn stiffened at her tone, and raised her chin. Before she could respond, Emerie interjected. “Yes, we are. But we couldn’t have done it without Nesta.” 

The female surveyed them both, an inscrutable expression on her face, before she broke into a wide grin. “There’s the fire. I’m glad you were able to stick it to those bastards.”

Feyre nodded her agreement. “Nesta, if you’re all done, I’ll winnow Gwyn and Emerie down.” She handed Nyx off to a disgruntled looking Amren. 

“Now I have to play babysitter?” She complained, though her expression softened upon seeing the slumbering child. “How’d you get the little monster to sleep?”

Feyre glanced at Gwyn. “It wasn’t me. Gwyn sung him to sleep—unintentionally, but it was still a great help.” She gave Gwyn a warm smile, and she returned it with a hesitant one of her own. 

Amren raised an eyebrow at Gwyn. “You mean to tell me that your voice was boring enough to put him to sleep? Or did you enchant him? I didn’t think a little thing like you would be capable of that sort of thing.” Nesta stiffened from her place in front of the mirror, and Feyre froze as well, though Gwyn could see the reprimand on her face. It was a little chilling to hold of all of Amren’s attention at once, but she found she did not mind. Surely, Amren knew about her past. Yet, despite it, she still treated Gwyn normally—she didn’t mind a little teasing. After all, she did work under Merrill. 

“I’ve never been told that my voice was boring to hear,” Gwyn said carefully. She had dealt with people like this before, even in Sangravah. Amren’s intent was not malicious, but rather to see if Gwyn would crumble, if she was strong, or weak. Then, straightening her shoulders, she continued, “And I don’t think I’m very little. Compared to you, that is.” Gwyn met Amren’s silver eyes boldly. 

The female stared back for a long moment, before laughing. “Very good.” She sounded pleased. “I suppose I should’ve expected nothing less from a friend of Nesta Archeron.”

Gwyn was unsure if it was meant to be a complement or an insult, so she merely bowed her head graciously. 

“Right,” Feyre smoothed her palms over her dress, before offering Emerie and Gwyn an arm. “Ready to winnow down? I’m taking Nesta last for entrance purposes.”

Emerie grinned, rising from the chair. “Oh yes. I can’t wait to see the look on Cassian’s face once he sees Nesta come in.”

Feyre laughed, and once both of them had taken one of her arms, winnowed them inside the temple, where a few people had already gathered in the pews. The inside was decorated as lavishly as the outside: fae lights were strung across the ceiling, and tasteful jewels and lavish fabrics decorated the interior. 

There were already a few people seated in some of the pews whose faces Gwyn did not recognize—then again, it wasn’t as if she knew many people. Near the front of the room, Cassian stood, with Mor, Azriel, and Rhysand surrounding him. He looked very handsome, dressed in a tunic of dark red, with his hair freshly combed and loose around his face. His face seemed alit by a glow from within—happiness, Gwyn assumed, that the seemingly endless cat-and-mouse game between him and Nesta had ceased. 

It was Rhysand that caught sight of them first. “Feyre, darling!” He strode to her with a wide smile, inclining his head slightly towards Gwyn and Emerie. “Ladies,” he said warmly. “Or perhaps I should say Valkyries.” 

Gwyn smiled upon hearing the title and Emerie stood a little straighter. “Perhaps you should,” Feyre grinned. She tugged them along towards the front. “Our seats are in the front. The ceremony itself will be relatively small, but the reception afterwards will be rather large.” She hesitated. “If any of you feel uncomfortable at any point in time, just find one of us, and we’ll winnow you home.” 

Gwyn squeezed her arm in thanks, knowing that the words were meant more for her than they were for Emerie. Cassian saw their approach and beamed, waving them over. “If it isn’t the winners of the Blood Rite!” He smiled broadly. “I’m glad you both could make it. You may just be my best students. Maybe. If you stopped talking so much about smutty books during training, the title would be yours."

Emerie snorted. “Please. Half of what you and Nesta do in bed probably comes from those books. If anything, you should be encouraging us.” Cassian flushed slightly, but regained his composure admirably. Rhys threw his head back and laughed heartily, while Feyre’s laughter was softer, more subdued, but no less genuine. 

Gwyn coughed into her hand to hide the flush on her cheeks. She’d gotten more comfortable discussing the romances with her friends, but amongst others—well, that was a different story. 

“What’s this about books?” Mor raised an eyebrow, her warm gaze sweeping over the scene with amusement. Emerie, Gwyn noticed, met her gaze steadily, though the way her shoulders stiffened ever so slightly—the way her mouth softened upon seeing Mor—well, Gwyn would’ve recognized what was written over her face long before she began reading romance novels. She made a note to talk to Emerie about it in the future. 

Still keeping a straight face, Emerie explained. “Cassian was asking us about the smutty books we like to read.”

Biting back a smile, Gwyn jumped in. “For all he talks about them, it makes me think he wants to read them too.”

“Our mating gift to them was a good idea, wasn’t it?” Emerie asked, smirking at Gwyn.

With pink cheeks Gwyn nodded, avoiding Azriel’s curious stare. “It was,” she agreed.

Cassian frowned. “What—it’s probably better if I don’t know, isn’t it?”

Mor looked delighted, and threw an arm around Emerie’s shoulder. “I haven’t seen Cassian blush like that in...well, far too long. You have to sit next to me.”

Still smiling, Gwyn followed the pair to the front row, sitting beside Emerie. Azriel and Rhysand followed them, while Cassian went up to wait near the front of the room. It seemed that Feyre had winnowed back to the house to collect Nesta. 

Azriel took the spot next to Gwyn, while Rhysand sat on Mor’s other side. Gwyn thought she saw a flash of something—curiosity, perhaps, passed over Rhysand’s face as Azriel selected the spot next to hers.

“Excited?” Azriel rasped, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Very,” Gwyn admitted. “This will be the first mating ceremony that I’ve ever attended, what with mates being so rare and, well, being in Sangravah...we used to host some, before Hybern, I think. Some of the priestesses would talk about it sometimes. But after Amarantha...from what I heard we stopped doing many things.” She sobered, thinking of the temple she had once called home. Inevitably, that train of thought led to what had happened the last time she’d seen Sangravah and—

Azriel cleared his throat. “It’ll be the first I’ve attended in...a few decades.”

Gwyn blinked in surprise, pulled out of the downward spiral of her thoughts. “But I thought that the High Lady and…”

Azriel chuckled. “As if they could wait for a proper ceremony.” His tone was fond, and for a moment, Gwyn felt a flash of jealousy. It was clear to her that every member of the Inner Circle loved each other dearly, like family. The last surviving family she had had perished two years ago, and now...she glanced at Emerie, who was smiling warmly at something Mor had said. Well, she supposed she wasn’t quite alone.

They sat in comfortable silence, and his shadows lept from his shoulders to brush against her own, lingering, before leaping back. “Will you sing?” Gwyn asked suddenly. “At the reception, I mean.”

He gave her an amused look. “No. Will you?”

Gwyn hummed as she pondered the question. “I would like to,” she admitted, “but I don’t think I can.” Not for all the attention, for everyone’s eyes on her, waiting for her to fail, to make a mistake, the feeling terribly similar to cold, clammy hands over her skin, to a laughing male, the sounds of his belt buckle clinking open—

Gwyn had not realized her hands were digging into her thighs until, hesitantly, Azriel placed a hand over hers, a shadow twining between where they joined. “Are you all right?” He asked, his voice gentle.

Gwyn clenched her teeth and stared resolutely at where his hand met hers. She had thought—she had hoped that maybe, just maybe, she was ready to be out in public, to be brave like Catrin—but she was still scared. Too scared to even sing.  _ A quiet little mouse, afraid of her own shadow _ , a cold voice in the back of her head murmured.  _ Catrin would never be so weak.  _

And then another voice, like her sister’s, sharp and clear, like the swift movement of movement of a river, pulling her away from the cold.  _ Don’t let them take from you what you love. Don’t let them win.  _

But it was too late wasn’t it? They already had—and she had let them. Except...she had not, not entirely. She had not because, despite all that had been done to her, she was here. And when the sun rose tomorrow morning, she’d be in the training ring, fighting. That was what strength was, a continual battle against what what wanted to overwhelm her, wanted to bring her to her knees. And on some days, though it was a struggle to rise from bed...what mattered was that she kept trying, day after day. 

“Gwyn?” Azriel repeated, a slight undercurrent of worry in his voice. She realized she had not responded. Her name sounded strange, but not unpleasant, coming from his mouth. She did not think she had ever heard him say it before.

“I’m fine,” she said firmly. She hesitated before turning her palm face up to brush against his. She did not lace her fingers through his own, instead choosing to survey his hand. There were scars scattered all over it, and the flesh was warped, shiny smooth in some places. Burn scars. She did not want to think about what horrors he had endured to get those. Despite it, his palm was warm, comforting. She could feel the raised skin, parts of it rough, parts smooth...she supposed it was an apt representation of him. How he could be so kind, gentle, and yet...she still remembered the rage in his eyes that day, how it had smoldered. He'd worn a terrible expression on his face, and yet, she hadn't been scared. 

It was the first time she hadn’t been afraid, after the day’s events. Somehow, a part of her had known that he meant her no harm. Upon noticing where her eyes had focused, Azriel stiffened beside her, and made to pull it away. She trapped it with her thumb, and idly stroked the raised skin on its surface, paying little attention to how he was unnaturally still beside her, how even the shadows had stilled, hovering just above their joined hands, as if in awe. 

After she reached where his hand met his wrist, she released him, and he quickly withdrew his hand, and when she raised her eyes to meet his, he avoided her gaze. “I’m sorry,” she said, and he stiffened further. “To have made you uncomfortable. It was not my intention.” Why had she done that? She hoped...she hoped they could still be friends. If that was what they were. 

There was a long pause, and Gwyn noticed his hands had clenched into fists. “You did not make me uncomfortable,” he rasped finally, and said nothing more. Gwyn did not press the subject, and instead reached for Emerie’s hand, squeezing it and placing it on her lap. 

Just then Feyre appeared with Elain. “Last one,” she said wryly, before disappearing again. But Gwyn hardly heard. For Elain...she had been beautiful when Gwyn had entered the river house, but now, she was breathtaking. She wore a dress of the palest pink, with a low-cut neckline emphasized by a golden chain around her neck. She swept past them, not sparing any of them a glance, and took a seat next to Rhys on the opposite end of the bench.

“Wow,” Emerie murmured. “ _ The Lord and the Rose  _ vibes, am I right?”  _ The Lord and the Rose  _ was one of Sellyn Drake’s tamer novels, but it was true—in that dress, Elain did bear a resemblance to its titular character, the Rose. 

The tension that radiated off of Azriel was palpable, but when Gwyn turned her head to look up at him, his face was as blank as it always was. His shadows had disappeared entirely, but as she looked, one peered curiously over his shoulder at her. He was terribly handsome, she realized.

Certainly she had noticed before, but she’d never had a chance to examine him so closely. His face appeared as if it had been sculpted out of the finest marble, his nose strong and straight. His lips...she flushed.

“You’re staring,” he sounded amused. She was pleased to see that some of the tension appeared to have left his shoulders. 

“Are  _ you  _ okay?” 

He seemed surprised by the question, and his mouth softened slightly. “I will be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to wait until I'd finished another chapter to post this one, but I couldn't resist:)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwyn meets someone unexpected

Finally, Feyre appeared with Nesta, who looked as devastatingly beautiful as ever. She ducked over to sit by them, winking at Gwyn as she passed. Meanwhile, Nesta stood alone at the end of the aisle, a slight smile playing over her full lips. Cassian looked entranced. His eyes were wide, an expression of awe and hunger on his face as he beheld her.

It was not unsimilar to the expression he wore when he watched her train. Emerie shifted beside her, and she knew that she was thinking the same thing. 

Nesta glided down the aisle, looking every inch a queen. She met Gwyn’s eyes as she passed, and her smile inched fractionally upwards, before her attention was captured by Cassian at the front. 

On a small table next to Cassian, there was a silver plate with a heaping pile of rich golden cakes. Nesta went to the table first, and picked up a cake, offering it to Cassian. He raised his eyebrow at her and opened his mouth wide. Nesta rolled her eyes, but there was fondness in her expression as she fed him the cake. Gwyn thought she felt a shift in the room as Cassian finished eating. A faint golden light seemed to emit from the pair, joining them together. The room was silent, awed. 

The priestess at the front of the room cleared her throat, and began to murmur the official prayers to cement the Mother’s official recognition of the mating bond. The room was silent until Cassian pulled Nesta into a kiss—then, the room burst into raucous shouts and applause. 

It was Gwyn’s first instinct to shy away from it—she had, after all, spent the vast majority of her last two years in a library—but even Emerie was shouting, a large smile on her face, and Azriel was clapping, shaking his head with a knowing smile. So Gwyn joined in, tightening her grip over Emerie’s hand. 

The joy on her sister’s face, reflected on Cassian’s—it was all too easy to forget where she was, her past, her fears. But all too soon, the ceremony ended and Cassian swept Nesta away to the House of Wind. 

“They won’t be staying for the reception?” Gwyn asked Azriel curiously as she stood, brushing off invisible dust on her dress. 

Azriel coughed. “Traditionally, they would. But I suppose they were eager to start their honeymoon.”

“Ahhh.” Gwyn’s lips twitched. “So we won’t see them for a week or so.”

Emerie joined in. “A week? More like a month. The way he looks at her during training…”

Gwyn laughed genuinely for the first time since Ramiel. “I don’t think Nesta would let him get away with that. I say two,  _ maximum.” _

“You’re probably right,” Emerie sighed. “Are you staying for the reception?” 

“Are you? I’ll stay if you stay.” 

Emerie smiled at her, slow and warm.  _ I’m proud of you _ , it said. “I’m going to stay for a little bit,” she admitted, “but not for too long. I have to get back to the shop.”

“Have they...have they been giving you trouble?” Emerie was the first Illyrian female to ever even participate in the Blood Rite—and, to add insult to injury, she had won it. Gwyn could only imagine how the egotistical Illyrian males were handling  _ that _ . 

Emerie shrugged. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Gwyn frowned, and her expression was mirrored on Mor’s face. Azriel’s lips tightened. “Their opinions are worthless anyways,” he said coldly, and excused himself from the conversation. 

Gwyn stared after him in surprise. The shadowsinger rarely displayed such emotion. She had known he despised Illyrian traditions and customs, but his tone...it hinted at something far more personal than mere discontent. Her mind flashed to the burn scars on his hands, the scars on his wings—he did not often open them during training, but on that night at the training ring, she had seen the silvery lines they 

made over the black feathers. 

Emerie cleared her throat. “Not that I don’t completely agree with that statement, but…” she trailed off, her respect for Azriel causing her to hesitate on her next words, “it sounds like there’s a history there.”

Mor looked grim. “There is.” Sadness crossed her face, turning her beautiful features grim. The expression was only there for a moment before she changed the topic. “But nevermind that—today is for happier things. I’ll go get us some drinks.” She disappeared through the doors of the temple, joining a line of people who were slowly moving to the festivities outside. 

“Ready?” Emerie asked, inclining her head towards the door.

Gwyn straightened. “Of course. I survived Sangravah  _ and _ the Blood Rite. I can make it through one party.”

As it turned out, it wasn’t quite so simple. The first thing that hit Gwyn as she stepped outside of the temple’s comforting walls was the noise. So,  _ so _ much noise. She had thought the clapping and shouting at the ceremony was loud—she’d had no idea it could get worse. The second thing was the people. There must have been hundreds, all milling around the grounds of the temple. 

She had never seen so many people in one place before. Living at Sangravah had never been lonely, exactly, for she’d always had Catrin, but there had never been more than a few visitors at a time, and there’d been less than thirty priestesses living there. Though there were many more priestesses at the library, they were all much quieter, and nothing, nothing could have prepared her for the overwhelming feeling of walking into a crush of bodies, skin pressing against her—she gasped as someone brushed a hand against her back.

It had been a long, long time since anyone had touched her without her permission, her consent. Though she was sure it was unintentional, she could not suppress the rising feeling of panic in her gut. 

Emerie, frowning, turned towards her, and must have seen something in her face, for she grabbed Gwyn’s arm and began tugging her away. Finally, they reached the edge of the crowd, and Gwyn, pale and trembling, sat on the ground. Emerie joined her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her into a hug. 

They did not speak until Gwyn stopped shaking and relaxed in Emerie’s embrace, utilizing the Valkryie Mind-Stilling technique. “Sorry about that,” she said quietly, pulling away.

Emerie frowned at her. “Don’t apologize, Gwyn. It wasn’t your fault.”

Wasn’t it though? Why couldn’t she control it? Why wasn’t she getting better?  _ Catrin _ would have been fine in this crowd, though Gwyn had always been the twin better at dealing with people. 

“Do you want me to find Mor? She could winnow you back to—”

“No.” Gwyn said firmly, standing and brushing her dress off. “I can stay. I  _ will _ stay.”

Emerie stood too, narrowing her eyes at Gwyn. “You shouldn’t have to force yourself.”

Gwyn shrugged. “I’m not going to give up this easily. And while we’re on the subject of Mor...is there something you want to tell me?” She raised an eyebrow at her friend, who blushed. 

“As much as I wish there was, there’s nothing. What can I say? She’s beautiful and golden and she’d never...she’d never look twice at someone like me.” Emerie’s tone was equal parts wistful and bitter, and her wings twitched behind her as if wanting to unfurl—but of course, that had been taken from her. 

There was a bitter taste in Gwyn’s mouth as she thought about what had been done to her friend, the feelings of worthlessness that it had instilled in her. Those Illyrians! If she ever went back to the steppes again, it would be to rip those chavunistic pigs to shreds. 

“Someone like you? You mean a Valkriye and the winner of the Blood Rite? A kind, brave, fierce, beautiful—”

“All right,” Emerie laughed, “I get it. Maybe one day I’ll tell her.”

“You should,” Gwyn said firmly. “I think…” But Gwyn never got to finish her train of thought, for a red-haired male stepped out of the crowd and in front of them. His skin was a dark gold, and his eyes...one was russet and the other was gold, gold and mechanical. 

The three of them paused, staring at each other in surprise. The male was the first to speak, stepping backwards. “My apologies. I...I thought I scented someone I knew.” He bowed and made to leave, but Gwyn reached out and snagged the sleeve of his tunic. 

“Wait,” she whispered. “I…” There was something familiar about him too, something that reminded her of a merrily crackling fire in a hearth, of cozy armchairs, and halls full of song. 

Emerie and the male looked at her with equal amounts of shock, though likely for different reasons. “You feel like…” she struggled with the words, the scent she hadn’t smelt for nearly two years.  _ Your grandmother seduced a High Fae from the Autumn Court _ , she remembered her mother saying.  _ That’s why your hair is so red _ . “Like family,” she breathed, raising her eyes to meet his. There were traces of her mother’s scent in his, of sweet-smelling smoke and crisp apples—autumn. She imagined that if she’d had uncles, or even cousins, they’d have smelled like this. 

His shoulders relaxed, and she dropped his sleeve, taking a step back. “I thought so too. But I had not thought to see a member of my family so far from the Autumn Court.” He watched her warily, as if expecting her to jump on him and attack. It would have been laughable if she wasn’t so stunned.

“Who are you?” Gwyn asked curiously. 

His brow furrowed, before he dipped his chin at her. “Lucien Vanserra, son of Beron, High Lord of the Autumn Court... _ cousin _ .”

*

Almost half an hour later, Gwyn sat at a table in the River House, a mug of hot cocoa clutched between her hands. Emerie sat on one side of her, staring coolly at the red-haired male that sat opposite her.  _ Lucien _ . Her—her cousin. She couldn't take her eyes off of his face. He  _ did _ bear some similarities to her mother, she realized. The shape of his eyes, the way he furrowed his brow. It was both sweet, overwhelming, and terrifying all at once. 

On his part, Lucien studied her just as curiously. Mor had rejoined them soon after Lucien had met them, and had taken one look at the situation before winnowing the three of them up to the dining room of the River House. After a bit, Feyre had popped in, taken one look at her pale, shaken face and Lucien’s confused one and returned with three mugs of hot cocoa. 

Azriel had entered the room a few minutes after Feyre, his shadows swirling around him. He’d taken up residence in the corner of the room, his hazel eyes alert and fixed on the situation in front of him. 

“Cousin,” the word rolled oddly off of Gwyn’s tongue. It was nice. 

“You clearly aren’t from the Autumn Court,” he said finally. The wary expression on his face had eased a bit, but he still looked tense. Gwyn could not understand. Despite her initial shock, she’d been overjoyed to find that she still had living family—surely, it would be the same for him?

“No. I grew up in a temple at Sangravah. I spent most of my life there, before...before I came here.” Lucien’s russet eye narrowed. Clearly, he sensed that there was more to the story. But Gwyn could not bring herself to reveal it, not in front of company, in front of a family member who did not look at her as if she was broken, but as if she was strong and capable.

“I did not realize my uncle would be so willing to part with one of his children. Particularly one of his daughters.”

“I’m not…” Gwyn hesitated. “I’m part river nymph,” she explained, studying his face closely for a reaction. Some people, she knew, disliked the thought of High Fae blood mixing with that of the lesser fae. And though she hoped Lucien wouldn’t be one of those people, the lingering memories of being called half-breed,  _ lesser _ , ran through her head. “My grandmother was a river nymph. She seduced a High Fae from the Autumn Court, and they had my mother. They didn’t...no one wanted her, not really, so they sent her to Sangravah. After a while, she had us.” 

Lucien’s eye softened. “Us?” He asked, his tone far gentler.

Gwyn felt her nails dig into the skin of her palms. “My twin sister and I. She…” she could not bring herself to say the words. 

He dipped his head. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said quietly. And it sounded as if he truly meant it. Gwyn nodded, unable to speak agaist the tightness in her throat, and stared into her mug. Emerie placed a hand on her knee. 

“Do you know who my grandfather is?” Gwyn asked, after a lengthy pause. 

Lucien’s eyes met hers. “I have my suspicions. At first, I thought it might be my Mother’s elder brother, but he would not…” he allowed his voice to trail off, but Gwyn understood. For many of the High Fae, the idea of consorting with anyone other than their own kind was abhorrent, disgusting. 

“The Autumn Court is very traditional,” he said quietly, “close-minded.” She supposed she understood what sort of reception might await her if she ever attempted to visit.

“I see,” She tapped her fingers against the side of the mug, and Emerie’s hand tightened on her knee. 

“But for all its flaws, it's quite beautiful. I could…” he hesitated. “I could describe it for you, if you like?”

Gwyn perked up. “I would like that,” she admitted, before yawning. Horrified, she pressed her hand to her mouth, feeling a blush creep up her cheeks. “I’m so sorry—”

But Lucien was grinning broadly. “It is getting rather late,” he agreed. “Perhaps tomorrow?”

Gwyn nodded, rising. Emerie stood beside her. “Yes. Yes, that sounds wonderful.”

“May I...may I escort you home?” He asked, offering her an elbow. 

Gwyn froze. “Actually, I—” What excuse could she give? She did not want her cousin to find out where she truly lived. It would change the way he looked at her, she knew it would. “I live in the library below the House of Wind,” she said softly, hating every word that came out of her mouth. The way his expression shifted from amusement to surprise. “Some of the priestesses, they’ll be waiting up for me, and if they see someone they don’t know, it might—”

“I understand.” He did not look at her with pity, but with quiet understanding. 

Feyre cleared her throat. “You are always welcome to meet here,” she offered. “The house is humongous, and its grounds are quite extensive.”

Gwyn felt relief flood her body. She could not imagine going to a location that was unknown to her, and as much as she wanted to trust Lucien, she was still...hesitant. To know that others would be here, with her, was reassuring. “Yes,” she said quickly, hoping he would not question her decision. “That sounds wonderful, thank you.”

Lucien offered her a small, but genuine smile. “I’ll be here. And I…” he hesitated. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you, cousin.”

Gwyn beamed back. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have my theories about Gwyn's father too...


	4. Chapter 4

Azriel winnowed her back to the library, as silent as the shadows that wreathed around them both. Though where his shadows were playful, he was quiet and still. Gwyn stopped him before the entrance. “Are you well?”

He glanced down at where her hand hovered over his shoulder, and she snatched it away, the shadows following it as if to pull it back. “Are you? What happened tonight...it was quite a revelation.”

Gwyn nodded. “It was, but...to be honest, I think there isn’t much that can surprise me anymore.” Not after Sangravah. Not after the Blood Rite. At least this surprise was pleasant. “Do you know him well? Lucien, I mean?”

To her surprise, she thought she saw his face tighten for a moment, before his expression smoothed over, becoming the blank mask he usually wore. “Not particularly.” His voice was harsh, and it almost made Gwyn take a step back in shock. “He is a good male,” he said grudgingly. 

Gwyn frowned, but did not press the subject. Clearly, there was some history between the two of them—but she would not ask about it. Not now. Instead, she nodded slowly. “He seemed so. It brings me joy to know that I am not alone—to know that there is still a piece of my mother that is not lost to me.” She spoke the words half to herself, admitting aloud the hopes she had held tightly to her chest since learning about Lucien. 

Azriel dipped his chin slightly, but said nothing in response. The mood was heavy, and his shadows swirled around him. His face was pensive, as if he was lost to memories from long ago. Not the good sort of memories either—the way his shadows moved around him, it was as if they were cocooning him, shielding him from some darkness she could not see. More than once had she wished for shadows to do the same for her, for her problems to be smothered under the cover of night.

“Do you have a mother?” Gwyn blurted, and immediately regretted doing so. The words served their purpose, however, for the shadows stopped cocooning Azriel so fiercely, and danced between the two of them instead.  _ Laughing _ . It was as if they were laughing, amused by what she’d said—but perhaps grateful, too, for it was cleared they cared for Azriel deeply, and it seemed they despised his dark moods as well. Or perhaps she was being ridiculous. Either was quite possible. 

Gwyn swallowed as Azriel raised an eyebrow at her. “That is not what I meant. I meant to say, that is—will you tell me about your mother? Only if you want,” she added hastily. For all she knew, his mother was dead too, or he hated her, or—well, there were an infinite number of possibilities. 

“If you tell me of yours.” Surprised by his response, Gwyn lifted her eyes from the shadows to study his face. It was as blank as ever, but the slight curl of his lips suggested amusement, and his hazel eyes were bright as he studied her. 

Gwyn blew out a breath. Talking was supposed to help, wasn’t it? That was what most of the books she’d read usually said. And these memories...she’d kept them locked inside of her for so long, savoring their sweetness, clinging to them. She had never dared tell anyone about her family before Nesta and Emerie, but they were her sisters now. Azriel...well, she’d no idea of what the future held for them both. 

“All right,” she agreed, surprised by her own words. “Let’s say a fact every day. About each of our mothers.” She’d start slow. Revealing a little of her mother at a time wouldn’t hurt her. And her mother—her brave, strong mother deserved to have someone other than her daughter remember her too. “I’ll go first. My mother...she loved to sing.”

“So did mine,” Azriel admitted, lips curving upwards at the intrest on her face. “She would sing lullabies to me, as a child, when we could see each other. The rest of the time, I sang them to myself, to remind me of her.” He paused, as if realizing he’d said too much. 

_ When we could see each other. _ What did that mean? Her mind flickered back to the scars on his hands, his wings. She remembered what she’d thought when she’d first seen him—that he was no stranger to pain. That he had known tragedy, and known it well. “My mother sang to me as well—both traditional High Fae songs, and ones that she remembered her mother singing to her. But those were usually in private. The priestesses...they were kind, but they did not like being reminded that we were different.”  _ Against the natural order, _ they had whispered, thinking she could not hear.  _ A High Fae and a nymph. It could have only ended in tragedy. _

Azriel’s jaw tensed, as if he had guessed the train of her thoughts. “I have found that there are few species more close minded than the High Fae.”

“I would be surprised if there were any at all,” Gwyn said dryly. She hesitated in front of the library door, unwilling to go in. She knew the instant she did, she’d be swarmed with questions about how the night had gone, and then after that, she’d have to sleep. She doubted even a tonic would be able to protect her from the dreams she’d have tonight. “Are you carrying a dagger?”

Azriel raised an eyebrow at her as if to say  _ what do you expect?  _ Gwyn grinned. “Do you think I could...maybe borrow one? I’d give it back to you tomorrow morning,” she said hastily. “It’s just that I want to train now, and I don’t want to go in and get my things.”

“It’s rather late,” Azriel said finally. His eyes met hers, curious, searching. “I could accompany you too, if you’d like. Your form could use some work.”

Gwyn scoffed, but couldn’t keep the smile off her face. “Of course I would. And you just wait shadowsinger—one day, I’ll be better with the sword and the dagger than you.”

He returned her smile, lips turning up at the corners slowly. It was a lovely thing, rich with amusement, and...affection? Perhaps she was reading too much into things. “I would expect nothing less,” he said, dipping his head at her, and gesturing to the training ring beyond. As she passed him, some of his shadows lept off him and onto her, twirling around her hair, her smile, and the hand she had placed on Azriel’s arm.

()

_ “Mother, what can you tell me about Grandmother?” With her red hair, lovely face, and bright blue eyes, Gwyn throught her mother was the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen, even though she had webs between her fingers, and her teeth were a little too sharp to be wholly normal.  _

_ Her mother’s eyes—large and blue, just like her own, studied her carefully, before she let out a deep sigh. “From what I remember, she was very beautiful. She had the loveliest dark hair—like Catrin—and eyes just like you and I. But it was her voice that I remember the most. Even among river nymphs, your grandmother’s voice was unusually lovely. Unusually powerful, and for that she was both respected and feared. Her song was how she caught the eye of your grandfather. But it also…” she hesitated. “It attracted the wrong sort of attention too, I remember. I’ve always been grateful I did not inherit the gift, but I worry that…” _

_ She glanced towards Gwyn again, worry making her blue eyes murky. “Will you promise me something, Gwyn?” _

_ “Anything,” Gwyn breathed. For there was nothing she would not do for her mother.  _

_ “You must promise me to be careful with your song. Can you do that? Never reveal the full extent of your power.” _

_ “I can’t sing?” Gwyn asked, feeling crestfallen.  _

_ Her mother hastened to amend her words. “Of course you may. But I fear one day, there will come a time where you will be asked to use your gift. When that time comes, you must refuse, Gwyn. Do you understand?” _

_ Her mother caught Gwyn’s shoulders and squeezed. “You must not reveal what you can do to anyone. Our gift is not something that is kindly looked upon, and there are those that would use you if they could.”  _

_ Gwyn nodded hurriedly, but her brow furrowed in confusion. “All I can do is sing, Mother. It’s nothing special.” _

_ Her mother gave her a sad look. “If only you knew…” she whispered, drawing Gwyn close and stroking her hair. “If only you knew.” _

()

Gwyn woke with a gasp, one hand pressed to her chest. Despite the exhaustion that clung to her bones after training with Azriel, she had not been able to sleep. 

She drew her knees to her chest and leaned against the headboard of her bed. Around her, the other priestesses slept peacefully, unaware of the turmoil inside of her. Would she ever stop feeling guilty? Her mother’s face was so similar to Catrin’s. 

But that dream...it had been a memory. One she had pushed to the very back corner of her mind. What did her mother mean by a gift? Sighing, Gwyn lay back down and prepared herself for another restless night. 

  
  



End file.
